


Dream Boy

by orphan_account



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: M/M, Morning After
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 16:30:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17811485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Eliott should be too pretty to be his first, but he is.





	Dream Boy

”My first what?”

He knows what Eliott means.

”Your first guy.”

Eliott should be too pretty to be his first, but he is. In the sparkle in his eyes from morning light through Paris, through the sheer blue curtains, Lucas puts the colour to mind — green, blue, some alloy of colour he’s never seen before, or seen but never cared, because he’s never been particularly bothered with anyone he’s got this close to before. What’s different with Eliott, than anyone else he’s had the chance to see like this?

That he’s a guy, maybe. The stubble on Eliott’s chin scratches his own totally smooth cheeks and chest, a new sensation that he hadn’t even considered. It hurts a little bit. Eliott’s hands are bigger when they hold onto his, or his waist, or his hips. And Eliott’s filling a space in the bed he’d before rationalized as ’extra leg room’: this morning they’re giving up as much of it as they can, rather lying on each other than alone in the vacancy.

He’s not young enough to pretend that it’s because of ’a single soul inhabiting two bodies’ Greek philosophic bullshit you have to know to even graduate — out of seven billion people, the chance of finding the lost body in the same country, in the same city, in the same bed now, is against everything Lucas has already said he believes in. Science is against predestination; it’s for random encounters and mutations and survival. In the moment, he’s not smart enough to think that Eliott’s not in his life for a reason, that it’s all happenstance, just a chance of circumstance; maybe, the thought of it all having had the equal chance of slipping through his hands without him even knowing that this could have been, is even painful. At least, it’s a less pleasant thought than losing himself in the moment and think nothing. He’s happier than he’s been for a long time.

But he’s not even sure if he’s in love. The thought of liking someone, and falling in love, is the difference between Montmartre and Mount Everest: about eight kilometers, a bit of bravery and a whole lot of ’what-if’s that once you start thinking too much about them, will keep you on the ground, too afraid to even try in case something goes wrong. Right now, it feels like he can do anything, say anything, without having to think twice, without having to wonder if everyone has thoughts like these or if there’s something wrong with him. Eliott looks at him like he’s talking about quantum physics or world peace when he’s really only talking about stupid thoughts he’s had in the shower and only just remembered now, now that they’re already talking about stupid things — for hours, and hours.

He’s not thinking straight. After dancing around each other for so long, there’s the outside world that they’re no longer part of, that they don’t have the time in the universe to bother with. Forever suddenly isn’t so abstract; forever is from now on, until they have to leave this room.

Eliott laughs. ”I’ll take that as a yes.”

Can he tell in the way Lucas kisses him back? Kissing a girl and kissing a guy, he found out last night, is the same, but totally different. Eliott seems okay with how he does it. More than okay. He’s seeking him with lips and tongue and hands everywhere, in a way that girls just don’t. He’s experienced.

”And you?”

He’s got a girlfriend. They’ve been together for a long time. Yet there’s nothing that feels wrong when Eliott cocks a brow — _if yes, how many times?_ — but Lucas has forgotten all about girlfriends, his or Eliott’s. Just to laugh, and hear Eliott laugh, something they both haven’t done for real in such a long time, makes him want to laugh even more, and hear it again. How could they think about anything else? Laugh lines under his fingers, squinting eyes until the colour disappears under his eyelids and long lashes as they kiss again. 

It’s not just to kiss a guy; it’s to kiss with some other meaning than ’because I’m supposed to.’

The time for words is over once Eliott’s cold hands are under his t-shirt again. His mouth isn’t going anywhere except for on him, he’s made it clear already last night, his way of exploring, his way of telling what Lucas should expect next. There’s no time for words.

The heat’s enough to sear any fear, any hesitation. Eliott knows what he’s doing, because while Lucas was too busy telling himself he’d never be here, never in the bed of another man, Eliott’s been practicing. He’s older, too. With everything, he’s got two years ahead; for now, it’s easier to let him show what he can do, what they _can_ do — he’s scared, but curious, but hard. His lips to Lucas neck and Eliott’s hovering above in the golden light, he looks like he’s made of marble.

Pinned to the sheets, somehow he gets Lucas’s shirt off; pinned to the sheets, Lucas somehow gets Eliott’s shirt off.

He likes Eliott’s hard body over Chloé’s soft, small one. He likes Eliott’s sturdy, determined touch over Chloé’s fleeting, demanding one. It’s all subconscious; he doesn’t think about Chloé even once. Maybe, he’s even forgotten she exists. Either way, Eliott licks his tongue for the last time before moving on. The road of kisses down his neck, over his collarbones, lower, lower, takes a long time. Eliott’s slow, taking as much time as he wants to — they have forever, remember, nothing waiting for them on a Saturday morning, nothing waiting for the rest of eternity; or, at least, there’s no one who needs them right now except each other.

Sometimes, he stops to suck a mark. His body should look like a constellation when he’s done, Eliott murmurs, Lucas laughs, which makes Eliott laugh, which he can feel the vibrations of in his entire body through Eliott’s mouth on his hip.

It’s what his friends talk about all the time when he stops listening. He’s never gone this far with anyone, before. How did he decide Eliott should be the one? Does it matter if it feels right, if he’s completely certain that when it’s all over, he’ll kiss Eliott just the same, keep him in his bed just as close? Eliott’s not very particular about his hair, it’s all for Lucas to put his hands through. He does and doesn’t want to close his eyes, wants to see everything Eliott’s doing to him, but Eliott swears it’ll feel better if he just relaxes — he didn’t even know he’s been tensing up under Eliott’s hands on his thighs, on his hips, but Eliott strokes his skin for comfort when his mouth is too busy to tell him calming, assuring words.

If a kiss was liberating, this is cathartic: to say Eliott’s name with breaths stolen out of him, letting Eliott do whatever he wants with him, doing whatever he wants himself — he _wants_ it, and it’s the first time, maybe ever, that he’s ever felt like he’s letting everything that happens happen because he wants it to happen. No tricks, no rebounds, no facades. In a room with a locked door, there’s no need to hide anything, because he wants Eliott to see everything that’s real, too.

What the real Lucas is like, he barely knows himself anymore — but they’ll find out together.

Afterwards, they talk for a long time; like Eliott hadn’t just sucked him off, everything is just like before. And when they’ve talked for an eternity again, about everything and nothing and the universe and the other universes too, he does the same thing to Eliott. New territory has never been so safe, Eliott talking him through, assuring him that everything couldn’t be better. And when they’re done, Eliott against his back, hands and lips and security, Eliott promises that he’s got nowhere that he has to be, that he’s staying; Lucille’s another problem for another day for another Eliott, but the veil is already ripped and the real world peers through.

When Lucas wakes up, he’s alone. He’s convincing himself it’s not a dream by the note on his pillow and the marks on his body, but Eliott’s fleeting. He can’t stay in one place for too long, or he’ll disintegrate.

**Author's Note:**

> I had no work today and haven't been able to write anything for almost two months now. Hopefully this will resurrect my want to write from hell. As usual, I don't read what I write 2 times because I will die if I do that. Thank you, and good night.


End file.
